


Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

by bilboswaggins



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 08:37:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3481544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bilboswaggins/pseuds/bilboswaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo returns from his adventure to his empty hobbit hole. Only then does he let himself remember. The good. The bad. The happiness. The pain.<br/>Plant your trees, watch them grow. Slight Bagginshield mentions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Chairs at Empty Tables

The noise of the confusion outside was dulling in the Hobbit’s ears. Once his door slammed shut, his mind all but blocked it out, preferring the silence of an empty hobbit hole. They were leaving, and that was all that mattered.

His feet pattered lightly and slowly on the wooden floors as he walked through, his eyes taking in everything. Fallen portraits, knick knacks strewn across the floor, tables and chairs knocked over in what looked like haste. This Hobbit Hole was a great deal different from the one he had left over a year ago. He lifted one of his hands to lightly brush the wooden walls, pulling away with a light film of dust. It had been so very long since he had dusted anything.

The chest and his other items were set down carefully where his mother’s old glory box used to be (he would have to go and get that back…eventually…), and he stripped off all his clothing, save his now-ragged trousers and stained shirt. His mind was blank. It was like a tent in a thunderstorm, mostly empty, with a barrage of rain coming from all sides trying to get in. He fought it, not wanting unpleasant thoughts to enter just yet. Not yet.

The dining room was right there. The table was overturned, the chairs missing, his cutlery and table settings missing, but there it was. He bit his lips and turned away, ignoring the ghosts of laughter seeming to come from it. He walked instead to the main hall. There, on the ground, was a folded cloth of pure white. He stooped to pick it up. A beautiful red ‘B.B.’ was stitched on the corner. His handkerchief. It… seemed worthless to him now. Once, so important. Without his permission, his memory flashed up the image of Bofur throwing a torn rag at him, the image so clear and so saturated with colour. _‘Here, use this.’_ The words echoed in his mind. They repeated, and the last image of Bofur’s face at the mountain, a sad fondness, refused to leave his thoughts. He frowned, letting the handkerchief drop to the ground. 

It had started. And he knew, once it did, he wouldn’t be able to stop it for a long while. He had fought it the entire journey home, keeping his mind occupied with Gandalf and talking to him about meaningless things. But now there was no distraction. It was just him in here, after all. Truly alone for the first time since he had settled down to that interrupted dinner.

Quickly, holding back thoughts again, he walked back to the front door and bolted it shut. A quick walk through to all the windows on the left hand side of his home ensured all the curtains he had to draw were drawn shut. When he was sure he wouldn’t be looked in on or otherwise disturbed, he made his way to the dining room.

Grunting, he righted the table and aligned it properly, then took a step back. It looked so grey and dusty, empty and forgotten. But now, as he allowed the memories to flow, it was colourful, crowded, and filled with food. HIS food. There was laughter, with dwarves throwing food at each other right and left, Ale and Beer dribbling through beards and spattering on shirts. The Hobbit brought a hand to his mouth, his lips twitching as though they didn’t know whether to smile or grimace. There was Kili, walking up and down the table at a stoop, holding flagons and distributing them, not caring what of his precious plates and dishes he stepped on. Gandalf was there, tallest of the bunch, hunched over and calmly eating biscuits and sipping his wine in the midst of the chaos. Gandalf, who had known when this started how it would probably have ended up. Gandalf, who chose the hobbit, whether it be from intuition of selfishness. Gandalf, who set him on the path which would come to permanently change him.

But the dwarves were there. Happy, full of life, brimming with optimism and excitement, paying zero attention to the unexpected host. In a way, he was glad. This way he could picture this happy scene exactly as it was. He had a feeling it would be a long time until he could sit in the dining room without thinking of it. Bombur with his cheese wheels. Dori’s helpfulness. Bofur’s pipe. Dwalin’s surly attitude. Balin’s enjoyment. Oin with an ear full of beer. Ori’s belch. Fili and Kili….

This time, he choked and had to turn away. Unfortunately, he had turned on instinct to his entryway. There, the most painful memory of all was waiting for him. The one he had suppressed the hardest. Thorin Oakenshield was standing there, hands behind his back, head tilted just slightly and a smirk on his lips, surveying him. _‘So… This is the Hobbit.’_ The voice echoed in his head. A dull pain started in his chest, aching. _‘He looks more like a grocer than a burglar.’_ The phantom figure began to move, walking over to where he stood, taking a path altogether different from the one in his memory. He stood before the little hobbit, painfully close. _‘Why did you come back?’_ it asked, voice low and quiet. He could still picture that voice all too well. The low pitch, the smoothness, the emotion subtle but so clearly present.   
_‘Why did you come back?’_

The Hobbit choked again, fighting tears welling up behind his eyes with everything he had, the ache in his chest growing and growing though still feeling so empty inside, the pit of his stomach weighing what must have been a hundred pounds. 

‘Thorin,’ he said to himself, his voice breaking. His eyes closed, not wanting to half-see the figure in front of him. That only made matters worse. For now, he could almost feel him again, the phantom arms wrapping tightly around him in the hug his mind loved to venture to so often. 

_‘Never have I been so wrong, in all my life.’ ‘Forgive me.’_

Tears began to fall down the Hobbit’s reddened face. 

_‘Forgive me.’_

_‘No! No no no! The Eagles!’_

_‘Forgive me.’_ The half-imagined hug tightened around him. _‘I wish to part from you in friendship.’_

_‘No! No no no!’_

_‘Bilbo.’_

_‘Thorin!’_

The little Hobbit couldn’t stop it now. He fell to his knees, the back of his hand pressed against his lips, trying to keep it all in, though why, he did not know. There was no one here. 

No one here.

The voice sounded again in his ear, speaking new words in the imagined voice. ‘Live your life, Master Burglar. You helped us reclaim our home, and I will always be grateful to you for that. Now you reclaim yours. Plant your trees. Watch them grow. We are not truly so far away.’

His hand was in his pocket before he realized what had happened. He pulled out the acorn and the ring, both sitting in the palm of his hand, both so precious to him.

_‘Amralime.’_

The ring was back in his pocket. He clutched the acorn tightly in his fist and got back to his feet. 

_‘We are not truly so far away.’_

He swallowed hard and looked out to his garden window, the sun still shining brightly, flowers in bloom, a large empty patch of grass beckoned to him. He thrust open the door and found the auction had dispersed. (How long had he been in there?) He was thankful – the tears were still coming and there was nothing he could do to stop them. 

Running to his garden, he threw himself on the earth, using his bare hands to dig up the soil. Carefully, lovingly, he placed the acorn in the hole and looked at it. That little acorn had been on its own adventure. It now would stand for his time with the dwarves, and all that entailed. The good. The bad. The happiness. The pain. He wanted to remember it all. He smiled to himself, through tears blurring his vision, and began to cover the seed back up. 

_‘Plant your trees. Watch them grow.’_


End file.
